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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409020" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Written Out [1]</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sing the song of the reckless, who care not what they do;<br>Sing the song of a sinner and the song of a writer, too—<br>Down in a pub in the alleys, in a dark and dirty hole,<br>With every soul a drunkard and the boss with never a soul. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Uncollared, unkempt, unshaven, sat the writer whose fame was fair,<br>And the girls of the streets were round him, and the bullies and bludgers there;<br>He was one of themselves and they told him the things that they had to tell—<br>He was studying human nature with his brothers and sisters in hell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He was neither poor nor lonely, for a place in the world he’d won,<br>And up in the heights of the city he’d a thousand friends or none;<br>But he knew that his chums could wait awhile, that he’d reckon with foes at last,<br>For he lived far into a future that he knew because of the past. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They remembered the man he had been, they remembered the songs he wrote,<br>And some of them came to pity and some of them came to gloat:<br>Some of them shouted exulting—some whispered with bated breath<br>That down in a den in the alleys he was drinking himself to death. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus said the voice of the hypocrites—and the true hearts sighed with pain,<br>‘Oh! he never will write as he used to write! He never will write again;’<br>A poet had written his epitaph in numbers of sad regret,<br>And the passing-notice was pigeon-holed, and the last review was set. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But the strength was in him to rise again to a greater height, he knew,<br>For the sake of the friends who were true to him and the work that he had to do;<br>He was sounding the depths that he had to know, he was gathering truths for his craft,<br>And he heard the chatter of little men—and he turned to his beer and laughed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409020" data-title="Written Out [1] de Henry Lawson" data-description="Sing the song of the reckless, who care not what they do;
Sing the song of a sinner and the song of a writer, too—
Down in a pub in the alleys, in a dark and dirty hole,
With every soul a drunkard and the boss with never a soul. 

Uncollared, un..."></div>
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